Maigret and Monsieur Charles

by Georges Simenon

  ‘Do you really think so?’

  ‘Since this morning, yes … I could be wrong but …’

  ‘That would be too easy, wouldn’t it? The pair of them are very clever. Nathalie is really wild … You heard what the psychiatrist told us … It reminds me of a phrase I read recently: Frenzied to the point of losing consciousness …’

  ‘Do you reckon that could apply to her?’

  ‘Yes. When she’s been drinking, at any rate … And the way she is, under the influence of alcohol from the moment she wakes up, that makes her a dangerous woman …’

  ‘But to go so far as killing her husband …’

  ‘I know … And yet, she gets carried away … I’ll go back and see her, just to push her into a corner …’

  ‘Supposing she’s the one who was afraid?’

  ‘Of whom?’

  ‘Of her husband … He might sometimes want her dead …

  ‘He’s put up with her for over fifteen years, true, but there’s a point when something snaps …’

  Maigret gave a wry laugh.

  ‘Look at the pair of us, building theories on the basis of suppositions …’

  He didn’t have a brandy after his coffee. He was going to be put off brandy for a long time after seeing Madame Sabin-Levesque knock it back like water.

  4.

  Maigret was seated at his desk staring glassily at the man sitting opposite him, who was dressed in a chauffeur’s strict livery and awkwardly turning his cap over and over in his hands.

  Lapointe and his trusty shorthand notepad were at the back of the office. It was Lapointe who had gone to fetch the chauffeur from Boulevard Saint-Germain and he’d found him in his room above the garages.

  Maigret had had to urge the nervous man to sit down.

  ‘Vittorio Petrini?’

  ‘Yes, monsieur.’

  He was so well trained that he looked as though he might stand to attention at any moment.

  ‘You were born …?’

  ‘In Patino, a small village south of Naples.’

  ‘Are you married?’

  ‘No, monsieur.’

  ‘How long have you been in France?’

  ‘Ten years, monsieur.’

  ‘Did you start working for your current employers straight away?’

  ‘No, monsieur. I was with the Marquis d’Orcel for four years.’

  ‘Why did you leave?’

  ‘Because he died, monsieur.’

  ‘Tell me what your duties consist of at the Sabin-Levesques’.’

  ‘I don’t have a lot of work, monsieur. In the morning, I do the shopping for Mademoiselle Jalon—’

  ‘The cook?’

  ‘She has difficulty walking. She’s quite elderly. Then I’d maintain the cars, unless monsieur needed me.’

  ‘You’re speaking in the past tense …’

  ‘I beg your pardon, monsieur?’

  ‘You are speaking as if that was in the past.’

  ‘I haven’t seen monsieur for a long time.’

  ‘Which car did he use?’

  ‘Sometimes the Fiat, sometimes the Bentley, it depended on which clients he was going to see. We would sometimes travel fifty, even a hundred kilometres from Paris. A lot of Monsieur’s clients are very old and don’t come into the city any more. Some of them live in very fine chateaux—’

  ‘Did your boss chat to you while you drove?’

  ‘Sometimes, monsieur. He’s a very good boss, not proud, nearly always in a good mood.’

  ‘Does Madame ever go out in the morning?’

  ‘Almost never. Claire, her maid, told me she gets up very late. Sometimes she doesn’t have lunch.’

  ‘What about in the afternoons?’

  ‘Monsieur almost never needed me. He stayed at the office.’

  ‘He didn’t drive himself?’

  ‘Sometimes, but he preferred to take the Fiat …’

  ‘What about Madame?’

  ‘She would sometimes go out at around four or five o’clock. Without me. Without a car. Apparently she went to the cinema, nearly always to one of the cinemas in the Latin Quarter, and came home by taxi.’

  ‘Did it not strike you as odd that she didn’t ask you to drive her there or pick her up?’

  ‘Yes, monsieur. But it’s not my place to judge.’

  ‘Would she sometimes ask you to drive her?’

  ‘Once or twice a week.’

  ‘Where would she usually go?’

  ‘Not far. Rue de Ponthieu. To a little English bar where she’d stay for quite some time.’

  ‘Do you know the name of the bar?’

  ‘Yes, monsieur. The Pickwick …’

  ‘What state would she be in when she came out?’

  The chauffeur was reluctant to reply.

  ‘Drunk?’ insisted Maigret.

  ‘Sometimes I’d help her into the car.’

  ‘Would she go straight home?’

  ‘Not always. Every so often she’d ask me to stop outside another bar, the one in the George V hotel.’

  ‘Did she come out of there alone too?’

  ‘Yes, monsieur.’

  ‘Was she able to get into the car?’

  ‘I’d help her, monsieur.’

  ‘What about the evenings?’

  ‘She never went out in the evenings.’

  ‘And your boss?’

  ‘He’d go out, but without a car. I think he preferred to take taxis.’

  ‘Every evening?’

  ‘Oh! No. He’d sometimes not go out for eight or ten days.’

  ‘And did he sometimes not come home for several days?’

  ‘Yes, monsieur.’

  ‘Did you ever drive them anywhere together?’

  ‘Never, monsieur. Or rather only once, for a funeral. Three or four years ago …’

  He was still fiddling with his peaked cap with its leather visor. His blue uniform was well tailored, his shoes gleaming.

  ‘What do you think of Madame?’

  He was embarrassed and gave the ghost of a smile.

  ‘Don’t you know? It’s not my place to talk about her … I’m only the chauffeur …’

  ‘How did she behave with you?’

  ‘It varied. Sometimes, she didn’t say a word and was tight-lipped as if she was angry with me. At other times she called me her little Vito and chatted non-stop …’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘It’s hard to say. For instance:

  ‘“I wonder how I can put up with this life a moment longer …”

  ‘Or, when she told me to drive her home:

  ‘“To the jailhouse, Vito …”’

  ‘Was that what she called the apartment on Boulevard Saint-Germain?’

  ‘When she’d been to several bars, yes.

  ‘“You know it’s because of my pig of a husband that I drink. Any wife would do the same in my shoes …”

  ‘That sort of thing, you see … I’d listen in silence. I am very fond of Monsieur …’

  ‘What about her?’

  ‘I’d prefer not to answer.’

  ‘Do you remember the 18th of February?’

  ‘No, monsieur.’

  ‘It’s the day your boss left the apartment for the last time.’

  ‘He must have gone out alone, because he didn’t ask for a car.’

  ‘How do you spend your evenings?’

  ‘I read, or I watch television. I’m trying to lose my accent, but it’s difficult—’

  The telephone rang, interrupting their conversation. Maigret signalled to Lapointe to answer it.

  ‘Yes … He’s here … I’ll put him on …’

  And to Maigret:

  ‘It’s the chief inspect
or of the fifteenth arrondissement …’

  ‘Hello, Jadot …’

  Maigret knew him well and liked him a lot.

  ‘I’m sorry to bother you, Maigret … I thought that what I have to say might be of particular interest to you … A Belgian bargeman, Jef van Roeten, who was testing his engine at Quai de Grenelle, was surprised to see a body float up to the surface in the wash—’

  ‘Have you identified it?’

  ‘The wallet was still in the trouser pocket … Gérard Sabin-Levesque, does that ring a bell?’

  ‘Yes, damn it. Are you at the scene?’

  ‘Not yet. I wanted to let you know first of all. Who is he?’

  ‘A lawyer from Boulevard Saint-Germain who’s been missing for over a month. I’m on my way. I’ll meet you there … And thank you …’

  Maigret stuffed a second pipe in his pocket and turned to the chauffeur.

  ‘I don’t need you any more for the time being. You may go. I appreciate your cooperation …’

  As soon as he was alone with Lapointe, Maigret said:

  ‘He’s dead all right …’

  ‘Sabin-Levesque?’

  ‘His body has just been fished out of the Seine, at Quai de Grenelle … Come with me … Inform Criminal Records first …’

  The little car weaved in and out of the traffic and reached Pont de Grenelle in record time. Below the road, on the quayside, were planks, piles of bricks and barrels. Two or three barges were unloading.

  Some fifty people had gathered around an inert form, and a police officer was struggling to hold the crowd back.

  Jadot was already there.

  ‘The deputy public prosecutor will be here shortly …’

  ‘Do you have the wallet?’

  ‘Yes …’

  He handed it over to Maigret. Naturally it was soft, squidgy and soaked through. It contained three 500-franc and a few 100-franc notes, an identity card and a driving licence. The ink had run but some words were still legible.

  ‘Nothing else?’

  ‘Yes. A cheque book …’

  ‘Again in Sabin-Levesque’s name?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Maigret glanced furtively at the sodden form lying on the ground. He had to steel himself to go closer, as always in these cases.

  The bloated stomach was like an overfilled goatskin. The chest was gaping and ugly white viscera spilled out. As for the face, there was almost nothing human left.

  ‘Lapointe, telephone Lecureur and tell him to come right away …’

  He couldn’t impose such a sight on Nathalie.

  ‘Where is the bargeman?’

  A voice with a strong Belgian accent replied:

  ‘I’m here, monsieur …’

  ‘How long have you been moored at this spot?’

  ‘More than two weeks, you see. I was planning to stay only two days to unload my bricks, but my engine packed up. Some mechanics came to repair it. It took a while. They finished this morning …’

  His flaxen-haired wife, with a blond baby in her arms, was next to him, but she appeared not to understand French and her eyes flitted anxiously from one of them to the other.

  ‘At around three o’clock, I wanted to try out the engine myself, because I plan to leave for Belgium tomorrow morning after loading up with wine at Bercy … I noticed some resistance and, when the engine started up, this here body suddenly rose up to the surface … It must have been caught on the anchor or the propeller, which explains why it’s all mangled … Just my luck, isn’t it, monsieur …’

  The deputy public prosecutor, who was no more than thirty, was called Oron. He was very dapper, very distinguished.

  ‘Who is he?’ he asked, after shaking Maigret’s hand.

  ‘A man who’s been missing for over a month, Sabin-Levesque, a lawyer from Boulevard Saint-Germain …’

  ‘Did he run off with the takings?’

  ‘It appears not.’

  ‘Did he have any reason to kill himself?’

  ‘I don’t think so. The last person to have seen him alive was a nightclub hostess …’

  ‘Might he have been murdered?’

  ‘It’s likely.’

  ‘Here?’

  ‘I don’t see how he could have been brought alive to the banks of the Seine. He was no fool … Hello, Grenier … I’ve got an unpleasant job for you …’

  ‘So I see …’

  He was one of the new forensic pathologists.

  ‘I can’t do anything here. It would be absurd for me to certify the death, because it is pretty obvious …’

  A van from the Forensic Institute pulled up, but first of all they had to allow the photographers from Criminal Records to do their job. The lawyer’s chief clerk arrived shortly afterwards and descended the stone steps to the loading dock.

  Maigret pointed to the shapeless heap giving off a fetid smell.

  ‘See if it is definitely him …’

  The chief clerk was loath to approach. He was rigid and held his handkerchief over his nose and mouth.

  ‘It’s definitely him,’ he announced.

  ‘How can you recognize him?’

  ‘By his face. It might be horribly disfigured, but it’s definitely him. Do you think he threw himself into the water?’

  ‘Why would he have done that?’

  Lecureur stepped back, keeping as far away from the body as possible.

  ‘I don’t know. A lot of people throw themselves into the water …’

  ‘I have his wallet and chequebook …’

  ‘So I identified him correctly …’

  ‘I’ll summon you to Quai des Orfèvres tomorrow morning to sign your statement …’

  ‘At what time?’

  ‘Nine o’clock … Do you have a taxi waiting?’

  ‘Vito was just back … I asked him to drive me here … He’s up there on the road with the Fiat …’

  ‘In that case, I’ll hop in too … Are you coming, Lapointe?’

  He went over to the pathologist, the only person not to seem upset by the body.

  ‘Will you be able to let me know by this evening whether he was murdered before being thrown into the river?’

  ‘I’ll do my best … Given the condition he’s in, that won’t be easy …’

  The three men strode through the crowd of onlookers. Jef van Roeten ran after Maigret.

  ‘You’re in charge, aren’t you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Can I leave tomorrow morning? I’ve told you everything I know …’

  ‘First of all, you’re going to come to the police station to sign a written statement.’

  ‘Which police station?’

  ‘That gentleman over there with a black overcoat and a little moustache is the chief inspector of the local police station and he’ll tell you what you have to do …’

  There were four of them in the little Fiat, which Vito, like all private chauffeurs, drove smoothly.

  ‘Excuse me, Monsieur Maigret,’ muttered the chief clerk. ‘Could we stop for a minute at a bar? If I don’t have a strong drink, I might be sick …’

  The three of them got out at a bar where there were only two dock workers. Lecureur, whey-faced, ordered a double brandy. Maigret contented himself with a beer but Lapointe also had a brandy.

  ‘I wasn’t expecting him to be found in the Seine.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘I don’t know. I imagined that he’d gone off with a woman … He could have been on the Riviera, anywhere … The only thing that made me think something had happened to him was that he didn’t telephone me …’

  They soon reached Boulevard Saint-Germain.

  ‘Go over all the recent accounts and find out from the bank—’

  ‘Will you give me th
e cheque book so that I can check the amounts on the stubs?’

  Maigret handed it to him and headed for the door on the right, while the chief clerk went through the one on the left.

  ‘You again!’ exclaimed the maid in annoyance on opening the door.

  ‘Yes, mademoiselle, it’s me again. And I’d be obliged if you’d tell your mistress right away that I am waiting for her.’

  He made his own way to the boudoir and, as if in defiance, kept his pipe in his mouth.

  Ten minutes or so went by and, when Nathalie appeared, she was not in a dressing gown but was wearing a very elegant suit.

  ‘I was about to go out.’

  ‘To which bar?’

  ‘That’s none of your business.’

  ‘I have some important news for you. Your husband has been found …’

  She didn’t query whether he was dead or alive.

  ‘Where?’ was all she asked.

  ‘In the Seine, under Pont de Grenelle …’

  ‘I was certain something had happened to him …’

  The corners of her mouth were turned down, her gaze quite steadfast. She had been drinking, for sure, but she held firm.

  ‘I presume I have to go and identify the body? Is he at the mortuary?’

  ‘First of all, the mortuary was abolished ages ago. Now it’s called the Forensic Institute.’

  ‘Will you be driving me there?’

  ‘There’s no need for you to identify him. Monsieur Lecureur took charge of it. But, if you insist—’

  ‘Is that an insult?’

  ‘How?’

  ‘You believe I have such morbid desires?’

  ‘One never knows, with you …’

  The sacrosanct bottle of brandy was on the pedestal table with some glasses. She poured herself a drink, without offering her visitors anything.

  ‘What’s going to happen now?’

  ‘By this evening, the press will know and reporters and photographers will be ringing your doorbell.’

  ‘Is there no way of stopping them?’

  ‘You can refuse to speak to them.’

  ‘Then what?’

  ‘Then they’ll go sniffing around somewhere else. They won’t go easy on you, quite the opposite. They’re a prickly lot. They might find out about certain things—’

  ‘I have nothing to hide.’

  ‘Do as you wish, but in your shoes, I’d see them. I’d try to be as presentable as possible. The first ones will be here in an hour at the most.’